Welcome to Hyperion Records, an independent British classical label devoted to presenting high-quality recordings of music of all styles and from all periods from the twelfth century to the twenty-first.

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Five Poems of the Spirit

Recordings

'An excellent disc in regard both to the standard of performance and to the selection of Bairstow's music. And to that should be added straight away t ...'His anthems and services … are treasured within the church. Their touch is sure, and their word-setting is impeccable … Bairstow could hard ...» More

Details

Come, lovely Name; life of our hope! Lo we hold our hearts wide ope! Unlock thy cabinet of day Dearest sweet, and come away. Lo how the thirsty lands Gasp for thy golden show’rs, with longstretch’d hands. Lo how the lab’ring earth That hopes to be All heaven by thee, Leaps at thy birth. Come Royal Name, and pay th’expense Of all this precious patience. O come away And kill the death of this delay. O see, so many worlds of barren years Melted and measured out in seas of tears. O see the weary lids of wakeful hope (Love’s eastern windows) all wide ope With curtains drawn, To catch the daybreak of thy dawn.

O Lord, in me there lieth naught But to thy search revealed lies, For when I sit Thou markedst it; No less thou notest when I rise; Yea, closest closet of my thought Hath open windows to thine eyes.

Thou walkest with me when I walk; When to my bed for rest I go, I find thee there, And everywhere: Not youngest thought in me doth grow, No, not one word I cast to talk But yet unuttered thou dost know.

Lord, I will mean and speak thy praise, Thy praise alone, My busie heart shall spin it all my dayes: And when it stops for want of store, Then will I wring it with a sigh or grone, That thou mayst still have more.

Thousands of things do thee employ In ruling all This spacious globe: Angels must have their joy, Devils their rod, the sea his shore, The windes their stint: and yet when I did call, Thou heardst my call, and more.

Wherefore I sing. Yet since my heart, Though press’d, runnes thin; O that I might some other hearts convert, And so take up at use great store: That to thy chests there might be coming in Both all my praise, and more!

Blood must be my body’s balmer; No other balm shall there be given: Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth t’ward the land of heav’n; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains; There will I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before; But, after, it will thirst no more

King of Glorie, King of Peace, With the one make warre to cease; With the other blesse thy sheep, Thee to love, in thee to sleep. Let not Sinne devoure thy fold, Bragging that thy bloud is cold, That thy flesh hath lost his food, And thy Crosse is common wood.